“With brandy,” I remarked, folding up a scarf which somebody had given me wherewith to tie a wet compress to the back of his head.

“There is nothing the matter,” said Ghyrkins; “no end of a bad bruise, that’s all.  He will be all right in the morning, and the skin is only a little broken.”

“Griggs,” said Isaacs, who could now stand quite firm again, “hold the wet handkerchief in place, and give me that scarf.”  I did as he directed, and he took the white woollen shawl, and in half a dozen turns wound it round his head in a turban, deftly and gracefully.  It was wonderfully becoming to his Oriental features and dark eyes, and I could see that Miss Westonhaugh thought so.  There was a murmur of approbation from the native grooms who were looking on, and who understood the thing.

“You see I have done it before,” he said, smiling.  “And now give me my coat, and we will be getting home.  Oh yes!  I can ride quite well.”

“That man has no end of pluck in him,” said John Westonhaugh to Kildare.

“By Jove! yes,” was the answer.  “I have seen men at home make twice the fuss over a tumble in a ploughed field, when they were not even stunned.  I would not have thought it.”

“He is not the man to make much fuss about anything of that kind.”

Isaacs stoutly refused any further assistance, and after walking up and down a few minutes, he said he had got his legs back, and demanded a cigarette.  He lit it carefully, and mounted as if nothing had happened, and we moved homeward, followed by the spectators, many of whom, of course, were acquaintances, and who had ridden up more or less quickly to make polite inquiries about the accident.  No one disputed with Isaacs the right to ride beside Miss Westonhaugh on the homeward road.  He was the victor of the day, and of course was entitled to the best place.  We were all straggling along, but without any great intervals between us, so that the two were not able to get away as they had done on Saturday evening, but they talked, and I heard Miss Westonhaugh laugh.  Isaacs was determined to show that he appreciated his advantage, and though, for all I know, he might be suffering a good deal of pain, he talked gaily and sat his horse easily, rather a strange figure in his light-coloured English overcoat, surmounted by the large white turban he had made out of the shawl.  As we came out on the mall at the top of the hill, Mr. Ghyrkins called a council of war.

“Of course we shall have to put off the tiger-hunt.”

“I suppose so,” muttered Kildare, disconsolately.

“Why?” said Isaacs.  “Not a bit of it.  Head or no head, we will start to-morrow morning.  I am well enough, never fear.”

“Nonsense, you know it’s nonsense,” said Ghyrkins, “you will be in bed all day with a raging headache.  Horrid things, knocks on the back of the head.”

“Not I. My traps are all packed, and my servants have gone down to Kalka, and I am going to-morrow morning.”